


Inevitable

by Jevvica



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1795267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And his own voice echoed through his head, mocking.</p><p>“Death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: This little story was inspired by Aramis' line in S1E1, “Friends and Enemies”.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

 

“ _Or a stomach shot. Death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first.” --_ Aramis

* * *

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis had no idea what made him turn.

The field was a cacophony of shouts and gunshots and clash of swords. Noise and smoke and crush of bodies.

But something pulled at him, something unseen or unheard but inexorable.

And he had not survived this long without heeding his instincts.

Aramis pivoted, searching.

He saw Porthos' broad figure through the hazy air and started to smile.

Then Porthos staggered, his gloved hand pressed to his stomach. Even from the distance, Aramis could see the confusion on his face as he pulled his hand away and stared at the blood covering it.

Suddenly, Aramis couldn't hear the sounds of fighting. His heart pounded in his ears.

And his own voice echoed through his head, mocking.

“ _Stomach shot. Death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first.”_

No.

“Porthos!” And he was running, dodging combatants and flicking attacks aside.

All he could see was the scarlet dripping through Porthos' fingers.

Aramis skidded to a stop just as the tall man crumpled and they fell to their knees.

Porthos looked at him blearily.

“It doesn't hurt.” His voice was thin and fragile and wrong. “Aramis, it doesn't hurt.” He held out one bloodied hand.

“It'll be alright,” lied Aramis, pushing the hand down.

_Death is inevitable._

He ripped off his gloves, fumbling with the belts and buttons.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

“Aramis?” Athos' sharp eyes took in the scene, but quickly turned his focus back out to the fighting.

“I don't know,” answered Aramis and he hated the desperate edge in his voice.

“I'll keep them off you, best I can.”

He was beyond grateful for Athos' steady presence, but it did nothing to stop the terror that surged through his chest. Aramis glanced up at Porthos' face as he fought to get his blood-soaked jacket open.

Porthos' brow was furrowed, his eyes closed.

“Porthos, look at me.” He opened his eyes, blinking wearily. “I need you to stay awake. We're in the middle of a battle, and I need you to watch my back.”

_You'll bleed for hours._

“Do you understand? Stay awake.” Fire flashed briefly in Porthos' eyes and he nodded. His gaze swept past Aramis' shoulder, rolling and unfocused.

Aramis finally pulled the jacket apart, revealing the red stained shirt beneath. But not so stained as it should have been, given the state of the jacket. Numb fingers pulled at the thin cloth. No hole or gash.

“There's no wound,” he said, nearly to himself as hope stirred. “Porthos, what happened?”

“Told you, didn't hurt,” mumbled Porthos. But something was clearly not right. Aramis was the only thing keeping Porthos upright. Pain and puzzlement etched creases through his face as he tried to look at Aramis.

Aramis held Porthos steady, a palm to his cheek, and stared at his eyes.

“What does hurt, Porthos? Is it your head?” The big man frowned thoughtfully.

“Now you mention it...”

He forced his hands to be gentle, not to hurry and he carefully felt through Porthos' hair. At the base of his skull was a knot that made all the color drain out of Porthos' face, but it was an utter relief.

Porthos wasn't gut shot. Aramis wasn't going to watch his best friend die slowly and in agony.

Aramis took a ragged breath. And another. He framed Porthos' face with his hands, fingers brushing over lines and planes and scars and they reminded him how to breathe.

“Aramis?” Porthos' voice was still not right, too young. He reached up and lay a clumsy hand on Aramis' arm. “Alright?”

Aramis didn't know who he was asking about, but it didn't matter.

“Yes, it's going to be alright.”

This time it wasn't a lie.

 

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis sat down next to Porthos. The big man was sleeping again, though not peacefully. Porthos kept waking up, convinced he was still fighting or certain he wasn't supposed to be sleeping.

Because Aramis told him to stay awake, to watch his back. And his loyal, willful Porthos was determined to do just that. Even if it meant charging about camp, dizzy and stumbling and searching for Aramis.

Aramis tried to stay as close to Porthos as he could, but there were so many wounded.

Finally, hours later, the fighting halted, the sewing done and the camp of French soldiers was settling for the night. And Aramis could finally stay at his friend's side.

He was exhausted, but Aramis had something else to finish.

Something he needed to do.

When Athos and d'Artagnan returned, he nearly had all the blood scrubbed from Porthos' jacket.

Athos lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing, instead holding out Porthos' sword.

“Found this,” said d'Artagnan, flourishing the main gauche, “in an English soldier. A rather large one.”

“Large is a conservative word,” quipped Athos dryly. “My guess is that Porthos stabbed the man, but was taken down by his weigh and knocked senseless. He probably bled all over him. Porthos came to, covered in blood and confused and that's when you saw him.”

Aramis ran a damp hand through his hair.

“Well, now that's all cleared up,” he said wryly. He looked down at Porthos. He was frowning, even in his sleep. Aramis reached out and tried to smooth the lines away with his fingertips.

“I cannot remember,” said Aramis softly, “the last time I was that afraid.” D'Artagnan's hand on his back was light and steady.

Aramis coughed and looked up again.

“The man must have been rather big, to take Porthos down.”

“I would call Porthos large,” said Athos. “This fellow was...”

“Mountainous,” supplied d'Artagnan, with something like awe. Aramis grinned.

“Mountainous? Porthos will love the sound of that, I think.”

“It will make a fine story. One that will become more harrowing and valiant with each telling, I'm sure,” stated Athos, a smile pulling up his lips.

“Rightly so,” said d'Artagnan loftily with twinkling eyes.

Aramis studied Porthos, resting and safe.

“Mountainous,” echoed Aramis. And softly, he laughed.

 


End file.
